


Hey, Hey, Shout Loudly

by doctor_jasley



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship
Genre: Community: no_tags, M/M, background drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:39:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_jasley/pseuds/doctor_jasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cyberpunk/urban fantasy about Gabe and Travis being kings</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey, Hey, Shout Loudly

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for no_tags back months ago, I'm finally getting around to cross posting

The sound of the crowd is deafening when Gabe pulls off his headphones. They’re a specialty item he’s had for a long time. There’s enchantments and tech embedded into all the components. He’s never been the best at filtering out the white noise when he’s working, so he needs a little help keeping centered.

No one ever seems to mind. He’s only one of two. Half of a pair who only ever occur once in a hundred lifetimes. He can get away with nearly anything and the crowd knows it. Which is a moot point to start with considering how the mass of living creatures below would rather stand and listen to a master compose than complain over being shut out vocally.

Well, stand is a relative term. Gabe’s not a fan of the wallflower attitude of stillness. Scribblers, Taggers, Others, and even the Normies don’t find their way to the scene only to leave lost and alone, or even worse, _bored_. The clash of music against warm -occasionally cool- bodies is a communion of the oldest, most primal of religions; the celebration of life.

To not sweat, to not _feel_ would be wrong on so many levels.

Gabe’s resolutely _against_ that sort of doldrum behavior. If you find the underground, it embraces you, gives you something to come back to every single time you go searching for it afterward. Everyone has a home here.

If not with Gabe, then with Travis. After all, they’re not old school. This is the modern age and New York is too vast to only be ruled by one person. Or have an iron-fisted ruler with a complementary second in command as in the past when two were born for leading the realms into the future.

The city’s been divided down the middle for years and the underground is run by the both of them. They might as well merge the lines, blur the no man’s land into nothingness because they, more or less, rule both halves together, but the times aren’t as progressive as they’d like. Maybe when their scopes of influence stretch out into the smoggy reaches of the watery dawn, they can be more than they are.

Until then, their subjects only come to them during nightfall, when the neon of the lights blaze brightly, blocking out the stars. When the severity of their lives begins to crush them under the weight of their hefty burdens.

It’s how the world has been since it was created. So divided their sectors stay. Sort of. Gabe’s all about expansion and collaborations, no matter how hush-hush he has to be.

One day, the old ways will pass.

Having a vast following helps and he gladly supports all of his and Travis’ subjects, regardless of origin. He’s even fine with the juvenile Fae who visit this side of the dimensional fence to decide where they want to belong. It’s like a magical, Amish pilgrimage. A rite of passage, choosing between the old world with its dearth of the fantastical and the technological genius of the future.

The only payment he ever asks for in exchange is respect. A proper showing of allegiance is, of course, the only logical payment. He pours out his soul every night, through sound and emotion and all he expects is the return of that sentiment. Even a small tithing of emotion is more than enough. No one need give more than they can. The crowds are _always_ dense enough for a single drop of belief from each to collect into the vastest lake anyone has ever seen, even the Ladies of Avalon.

Neon flashes across the walls. Bright fluorescent colors that drip and flicker before morphing into shapes and shades of different hues. The Normies will think nothing of the display of magic. They’ll either believe they’re tripping or that the Taggers got ahold of pulse aerosol again. Maybe that the Scribblers rigged the lighting cells with pantone triplet coding.

It’s not a problem Gabe worries himself over. He sets his headphones down and yells out into the crowd before leaving the DJ booth. There’s still a heavy bass line thrumming through the speaker systems. He never wanders off for his break without something heady to play in his wake.

The music reminds him of a steady heartbeat. Healthy. Strong.

Victoria meets him at the bottom of the stairs with a brightly-colored mixed drink in one hand. She passes it over without saying anything. Alcohol doesn’t do much for her anyway. She’s more attuned to the buzzing, clashing, crashing display of life that’s populating the pit than she’ll ever be toward artificial substances.

The liquor doesn’t burn as much as it should when he knocks it back in one clean gulp. Gabe’s not surprised. Soon he’ll have the same problem Victoria does, to a degree. It’s something he’ll celebrate with blithe humor because it means he’s adjusted fully -that he’s been accepted, instead of rejected like a bad cybernetics hackjob- to this world of environmental doom and gloom with its phosphorus-bright lighting and crushing press of dying humanity peppered with the longevity of otherness.

He’s no longer a whisper of hope, but the truth that it does exist. That it can and _will_ be there for the faithful. All they have to do is search for the path and it will be laid out for them to tread.

A gaggle of Other women flock to fawn over him. Victoria rolls her eyes before showing a slip of fang. Gabe smiles as the women take a step back. His head of the guard is the _best_ in all of the lands. The only person who might rival her strength of will is William, who takes his post as Travis’ Court Advisor/Superior Mage of Everything seriously.

No realm would know what hit them if those two mingled with each other. The resulting merger would be a sight to behold. Except Victoria enjoys her post and the rest of her hand-picked staff too damn much to go courting a trip up the hierarchical shotladder. William’s too fucking attached to spouting words of wisdom or spellcasting for _science_ to ever try for a play that places him outside of Travis’ inner circle.

Everyone has their place. It’s the Great Cycle, related to the old-realm Wheel of Fortune, only less destructive. Gabe takes great comfort in knowing that there’s a purpose for each and _every_ creature who exists.

It’s the biggest reason he doesn’t mind interactions with the crowds that congregate nightly for the mutual offering. This is his part to play.

This is what he was born for and he’s completely fine with that. Being fawned over, idolized, isn’t something he lets scratch under his skin. Everyone has duties to carry out; this just happens to be one of his. 

The Other women swoon when he chats them up in Gorgonian Parseltongue. One of them even clutches his passed-off digi-plexi glass to the swell of her snakeskin covered breasts.

By morning, the damn thing will be the center of a shrine. It wouldn’t be first time that’s happened. Gabe’s gotten used to the obsessive pride some of his subjects have in what he stands for.

After a handful of minutes, the women let him pass without any fuss. The crowd parts as he strides forward. Normies reach for him, rambling rave exaltations in his honor. A Tagger with a Scribbler hanging off of his shoulder offer up a night on the town with them.

Gabe declines politely. He might love the thrill of pulse graffiti and surfing the virt waves with skilled participants, but there’s no time in his schedule for random vandalization of the privatized sectors.

The Tagger is understanding while his Scribbler friend is not. She gets mouthy and Gabe does what he can to settle her without tipping off the rest of the guard. He knows _exactly_ where Nate, Alex, and Ryland are and he could have any one of them show up to throw the Tagger and his girl out into the grimy chill of night, but that’s such a buzzkill.

A taze token smoothes other the Scribbler’s ruffled feather and she smiles at him wryly as she pockets the free ticket to the Eden circuits. Gabe has more than enough of the mechanical, blue discs sitting in his pockets to spare a single one in apology.

No one turns down Eden. Well, only a few do. Gabe’s met three such people in his lifetime. The Ways head of security can’t be bought off with even the shiniest of offers, while Wentz prefers Pandemonia’s fiery waves to the wash of love that comes from Eden’s inner workings.

A burly thunderbird wearing leather raises his shot glass when Gabe makes it to the makeshift bar. Magic brings all kinds out of the woodwork. Gabe offers up a smile and a nod in return before hopping the barrier between bar and everything else. There’s a bucket of frigid water waiting for him behind here, _somewhere_ , with a fresh towel sitting nearby.

Greta works around him. She’s new to the tending scene, but she’s a quick learner. Which is good, considering she’s being trained to take over for Brendon, who’s leaving soon for another kingdom.

 

She’s not a mix of digital and analog knowledge like Brendon is, but she knows how to slip from person to person with ease, can sympathize with anyone at the drop of a credit disc, and hasn’t gotten a single order wrong. Gabe’s willing to bet credits she won’t, ever. Sprites can be notoriously bad for their perfectionism.

The crowd loves her. They have since day one. She’s a good addition to their little roaming family of club nomads.

Gabe catches her around the waist on her next pass and spins her before letting her go. Greta swats at his hands and laughs. Then she goes back to portioning out spirits and tripper mixes, glitter sparkling in her golden hair as she moves.

There’s the slapping sound of sloshing water underscoring the music playing and Gabe looks down in time to slide back as Brendon -the only other person to decline Gabe’s offer of glimpsing Eden- nudges a plexi bucket close with a brightly-colored shoe. The water is an eerie shade of pale blue shot through with violet.

Disinfectant swirls in tiny flares of purple before sinking to the bottom. Which explains why Brendon was missing when Gabe hopped the dividing line. Water isn’t safe in some sectors and the only way to decontaminate it is through chemical alteration.

It only takes a moment of waiting for the blue to dissipate into the violet. Brendon spins around Gabe to pick up the slack at the bar. He hands out password codes to Nirvana and Shangri-La at almost random, while tiny vials of glittery, multi-hued powder are slid over to only a select few.

By the end of the night, his pockets will be empty. Come tomorrow evening, they’ll be full again, password chips and tripout dust making it hard to pull out even his slim commuter badge.

That’s the wonder of being a savant of both the digital and analog societies. He can work any crowd with an ease that is almost startling. Gabe shouldn’t be surprised. Brendon comes from the old world, originally -the last in a long line of mage princes who left home to find their fortune elsewhere. Here, he’s an apt code cleric and spirit breather who makes his own rules.

Gabe respects that.

They’re already planning a proper send-off for him before he leaves for L.A. It’s only fitting. He’s been with them since the early days of shitty venues and having to breakdown the bar in less than an hour so no one would get carted off by the Blues Gabe bribed to stay away until dawn.

The water is pleasantly cool when Gabe lifts the bucket to splash water on his face. Magic prickles his skin with a happy little hum. It’s nothing more than an after-effect of a chilling spell.

Gabe sets the bucket down, catching a worn, synth-wool towel when Greta throws the splash of colored fabric at his head. Brendon laughs on the other side of her and says something playful before slipping debt payments into the thin deposit box they keep behind the bar for credited accounts.

A handful of tripout vials find their way into Gabe’s pocket when Brendon passes to flag Alex down for a quick chat. That’s when Gabe notices the shift in the crowd behind them. They have company. New magic slithers through everything like acid rain melting through metal and Gabe knows why Brendon offered up a few of his special stash.

William’s visiting, which means Travis won’t be far behind him. Gabe worries for two ticks before hopping the bar divide. There’s no reason to fret. Travis’ sectors have more raids than Gabe’s and when the Blues get feisty, he brings his party to Gabe’s.

The more the merrier.

The music switches to something brutal and ancient while he’s in the middle of the crowd. Victoria let Travis into the DJ booth. Gabe grins, laughs to himself as he works his way through the crush of life.

He’s buzzing with energy by the time he makes it to the stairs. William’s having a hushed conversation with Victoria that he can’t hear because he’s not in the bubble William likes to create when he doesn’t want to yell over the pounding of the music.

It takes less than a tick to slide in close to Victoria. William fills him in on the raid, in which only a handful of Normies got pinched, and how Travis has decided on taking an extended weekend. Gabe gives William a smarmy smirk when he seems droll about the forced three-day excursion.

Travis always has reasons for things like this. Gabe can already imagine this mini-vacation isn’t just so they can spend the daylight hours at Gabe’s place in a variety of different positions. There’s bound to be talk about sector lines, Topper politics, and the recent marriage proposals between Others that they have to approve.

Then there’s how Brendon’s leaving soon and William won’t have another mage to play with when he goes. Travis never forgets about the needs of his own. It’s the mark of a good king, you don’t just look after your subjects, you also must provide for your inner circle of guards and confidants. Which is why Victoria rolls her eyes when Gabe pushes William out of his own bubble after telling him where to find Brendon.

There’s only time and not enough of it left when it comes to those two. Gabe’s willing to be the shove that gets William to stop dawdling instead of wasting his moments watching the crowd when he could be chatting Brendon up while he serves those in need of extra assistance.

The primal music slides into something cutting, modern, _fun_ the moment Gabe starts up the stairs. The booth isn’t large. Gabe and Travis are both tall-as-fuck, but they’re willful and like challenges.

Loud, joyous cheers rise up into the musky air. The crowd goes electric when Gabe plasters himself to Travis’ back and mouths _‘Hi, Travie’_ damply against his neck. Everything is brash and hearing is impossible, but Gabe _knows_ Travis replies in kind to his greeting.

This is where they both belong, and one day, this will be permanent. No need for mini-vacations, or extended, raid holdovers. New York won’t be halved right down the middle. Their subjects will mingle freely, endlessly. Every night and every day will be a celebration, and they’ll all be stronger for it.

Together. Two as one. Until then, every occasion they meet is worth the wait. Gabe can be patient.

Sort of.


End file.
